📍 Submitted by Miss Georgie
🗓️ August 2025

Been through a second miscarriage.

My heart is heavy, but I’ve got a daughter who starts school next month. I’m trying to show up, hold it together, do all the things I’m “supposed” to do—but I’m on autopilot. I have to be.

But what happens when she’s not here—when the house is quiet again and it’s just me and the silence? That’s when everything I’ve been pushing down comes rushing in.

Then there’s the to-do list that doesn’t stop:

• Learn to drive.

• Find a job.

• Sort the house out (we just moved).

I don’t even know where to begin.
I feel lost, overwhelmed… like I’m barely holding on.

ANONYMOUS ENTRY

I never met my biological father.

He died when I was a baby.

All I know is he was in the streets,

And I was left with the residue.

My mother tried to take me out of this world when I was just three.

That kind of betrayal—it imprints on your soul.

She was battling demons I couldn’t name at the time.

I just knew I wasn’t safe.

I got adopted.

You’d think that would’ve been the start of something better.

But I became the runt in someone else’s litter.

The black sheep in a home that only offered love

if it looked like obedience.

If it fit their mold.

Their way or the highway.

I chose the highway more times than I care to admit.

Then I became a father.

And everything shifted.

Not all at once—

But something in me cracked open.

Two kids.

A partner who believes in me even when I don’t.

I saw a different path.

I wanted to do it differently.

But grief doesn’t wait for permission.

My biological mother passed right after my second was born.

I said I hated her, but losing her felt like losing a final chance

to get answers I never got.

I spiraled.

Back into habits I swore I’d outgrown.

Into the numbness.

Into the pain.

But my wife—

She held the fort down.

She saw the good in me even when I was blind to it.

It’s hard leading a family when you were never led,

when all your examples were broken blueprints.

But I’ve also seen a long marriage up close.

My adoptive parents—still together.

Not perfect, but present.

I know what staying power looks like.

And she—my wife—

she came from chaos too.

Her dad a cheater.

Her mom unsure of her worth.

We’re both unlearning generations of dysfunction

just to raise these kids in peace.

I’m not perfect.

But I’m present.

And sometimes that’s the first miracle.

I’m not the man who left.

Not the man who harmed.

I’m the man who stayed.

And I’m still figuring it out,

every single day.

Anonymous Entry

I’m tired of pretending the work is done.

I’m tired of healing for show.

Of packaging my pain into poetic captions.

Of being inspirational when I still can’t get out of bed some days.

Of smiling during the breakdown.

There’s this quiet pressure—online and off—to prove that I’m mentally okay.

To say the right affirmations.

To post my coping strategies.

To be a mental health success story.

But here’s the thing: I’m still struggling.

Some days I regress.

Some days I don’t want to talk about it.

Some days I feel nothing.

And that should still count as healing.

We talk about “breaking the stigma,” but only if the breakdown is beautiful.

Only if it ends in a TED Talk.

Only if there’s a redemption arc.

But what if I’m still in the middle?

What if healing isn’t linear, and wholeness isn’t the goal?

What if I just want to be seen in the mess—without needing a moral?

This is me being honest:

I’m healing.

I’m hurting.

I’m not performing anymore.

Anonymous

Postpartum, partnership, and the invisible weight I carry.

The baby part? I’ve got that.

I’ve done this before. Newborns don’t scare me.

But what I didn’t expect was how hard it would be to partner in parenting.

That part…

That’s where I feel like I’m always walking on eggshells.

I’m not trying to be bossy. I swear I’m not.

It’s just—when you’ve done this before, you notice things.

Like how to hold the bottle, or what position is safest.

I’ll say something simple like,

“Hey babe, when you feed him, just tilt his head up a little.”

Not to criticize.

Just because I care.

But he hears it as me always having something to say.

Like I don’t trust him.

Like I’m trying to control everything.

So now I’m learning—

Trying to see it from his side.

Trying to soften the delivery, even when my brain is already fraying from lack of sleep and the never-ending to-do list in my head.

Then there’s my mom.

She raised three boys alone.

And she has this way of making me feel like I should do the same.

Like I don’t need help.

Like needing support means I’m weak.

She plants these little seeds:

“You can raise them on your own.”

“You don’t need him.”

“You’re strong like I was.”

And maybe I am strong.

But that doesn’t mean I want to do this alone.

That doesn’t mean I should.

I didn’t feel the baby blues right away.

Mine came creeping in around month three.

Quiet. Heavy.

Like a fog that never fully lifts.

I feel guilty for feeling overwhelmed.

Like I can’t complain—because I chose this, right?

They’re my kids.

But no one tells you how lonely it feels to be everything for everyone.

To be the default parent.

The one who keeps the rhythm going, even when she’s breaking.

Sleep? I don’t even know what that is anymore.

My four-month-old wakes up all night.

My one-year-old is up early.

There’s no in-between. No “me” time.

No moment to just be.

And food?

I forget to eat.

I’ve lost so much weight because I’m always moving, always giving,

and I don’t stop to care for myself until the whole house is asleep.

When my boyfriend helps, it’s a break for him—

but I don’t get one.

Because even when I’m off duty,

I’m still on call.

I’m still watching.

Still holding it all in my chest.

It’s wild, because as tired as I am,

as drained and stretched thin as I feel…

my kids keep me going.

They’re the reason I haven’t given up.

They center me.

Even when the rest of the world makes me feel unsteady.

📍 Submitted by Faith
🗓️ August 2025

(In response to an IG story post asking about a color and word for current energy)

Relearning who I am now that survival isn’t my only language.

You asked me to choose a color and a word for my current energy.

I said blue and stillness.

It surprised me at first—how easily those words came.

But the more I sat with them, the more they made sense.

I’m in a transition season right now.

New to motherhood.

New to marriage.

New to a rhythm I’ve never known before.

For so long, I was in survival mode.

Always doing, always pushing, always holding it down—because I had to.

That girl—the one who made everything work with grit alone—was all I knew.

But now?

Now I’m being asked to rest.

To let my husband provide.

To dwell in the softness of motherhood.

To relearn how to be still.

And honestly?

It’s beautiful—but it’s uncomfortable too.

Because when you’ve been hyper-independent for so long,

asking for help feels like weakness.

Leaning on your village feels like failure.

And receiving care feels… foreign.

I don’t have to live in survival mode anymore,

but part of me still clings to it—

because it was my identity for so long.

Now I’m discovering this other version of me.

One that’s softer. Slower. Still.

But also uncertain.

Because who am I, if I’m not the strong one, the do-it-all one, the make-it-happen-on-my-own one?

I resonate with blue because it feels honest.

Not sad exactly—just tender.

Like ocean waves that keep moving even when they’re calm.

I’m learning how to just be without bracing.

To receive love.

To rest in support.

To mother from a place of presence, not performance.

This stillness is new for me.

But I think I’m ready to meet her—the version of me who knows peace.

ANONYMOUS ENTRY

You ever meet someone who feels like home and adrenaline at the same time?
That was us. That was Monse and Cesar. The best friend you laugh with until your face hurts, the lover who can undo you with one look… and the person who will absolutely wreck you without even meaning to.

We were fire — the kind that keeps you warm until you realize it’s burning the whole damn house down. He wanted me, but he couldn’t put me before his mess. I loved him, but I couldn’t sit there while he treated me like an option. We’d circle back to each other every time — a kiss here, a night there — convincing ourselves maybe this time it would work. But it never did. Not because the love wasn’t real, but because timing’s a cruel little bitch.

We broke each other in ways no one else could. The kind of breaking that leaves fingerprints on your soul. And even now, years later, there’s still that part of me that wonders… if the timing had been right, would we have survived each other? Or would we have just burned slower?

Because that’s the thing about perfect person, terrible timing — the love stays. The person stays. The what if stays.